


Playing For Keeps

by Tinsela



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alpha Carl Grimes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Angst and Feels, BAMF Carl Grimes, Blood and Violence, Carl Grimes is a Little Shit, Childhood Trauma, Claiming Bites, Dark-ish Carl Grimes, Deviates From Canon, Eventual Smut, F/M, Firsts, Harm to Children, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Mental Health Issues, No Underage Sex, POV First Person, Possessive Behavior, Scent Marking, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-06-23 19:13:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15613080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinsela/pseuds/Tinsela
Summary: "One bite and then you can't see, can't think. Just one bite and you're bonded for life... and then you do anything to belong to yourself again, and - "Hand pressed to scars, Carl murmurs low and soft, reassuring, "I'm yours. I've always been yours. Nothing will change my mind."BAMF Alpha Carl x Omega OFC. M for future citrus, lang & gore. Slightly Dark!Carl. Updates are slow!





	1. Playing At Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!
> 
> This is the reboot, replacing the first version of Playing For Keeps I had posted. From reader feedback, I've learned not to switch POVs mid-chapter, plot pacing needed to pick up because readers were getting bored (I'm still embarrassed about that!), and Carl needed to be more front and center of the story. Carl and our OC had originally met around chapter 15, I've changed that so they will meet much sooner - so hopefully you don't find yourself wanting to skip the first couple of chapters.
> 
> In addition, I've decided to explore more of how and why the zombie apocalypse began, oh-boy! I'm crossing my fingers that you won't see it coming because it could be really good and you might end up liking the idea as much as I do. Biology is a subject I'm mildly familiar with, and ABO tropes are my guilty pleasures... science in this fic is a bit quack, but let your mind have fun and we'll all have a good time with the craziness.
> 
> Some house-keeping before I stop:
> 
> ~Carl's age has been raised, where I'm from 16 is the age of consent... so... yeah. Around the start of the outbreak, he's like 14. TWD timeline won't be exactly followed in this fic, and I won't rehash and repeat scenes constantly from the show because that'll be boring.
> 
> [down below is a little snippet of what ABO and Sentinel/Guides are...]
> 
> ~For this specific story, Alpha Guides can be physically impacted by their bonds with other people. A regular Alpha wouldn't have to deal with these kind of physical impacts of a bond. Alphas are proud and hotheaded... Carl is an odd one because him being a Guide makes him physically weakened by the intense negative emotions.
> 
> ~Guides are like... emotional companions/stabilizers for Sentinels. This story is in no way a soul-mate fic, but there are strong bonds created between people. Familial bonds and Romantic bonds exist. Some people 'click' together, just as some people are repulsed by the scent of others.
> 
> ~Betas are like normal humans, but everyone in this fic has a stronger sense of smell, can scent mark people and leave their scent on objects. Touching is a bit taboo.

 

 

* * *

_"You're gonna change." {Rick, season 5 episode 16}_

* * *

  **1.**

 

"Carl!"

My eyes flicker open and my head jerks up - too fast. Way, _way_ too fast!

The world is a blur of colors, and the furious rate of my blinking does nothing to settle the mess before me.

Each heavy closing of my eyelids only makes me want to hide my face back into the bend of my elbow - too tired. Way too tired, and it's not even my fault . . . if only they wouldn't talk so loud in the middle of the night.

My eyes close again, while my mouth shudders open with a full-fledged yawn.

I can pretend it's nighttime, that I'm home and no one is talking.

A brief thought of smashing my face into my pillow enters my mind. But I'm not home, so that thought is ultimately unhelpful.

I'm too far from my bed. The metal desk is looking more appealing the longer I'm forced to sit here. I scuffle my feet, tempted to peel my shoes off.

I'm too far from my soft, soft pillow.

But my elbow is good enough - maybe . . . maybe I can -

_"Psst! - Caaarl!"_

No, I groan low at the hissing voice, let me sleep.

_"Caarrrl!"_

But I can't sleep, especially with my name sounding like that, and the voice is close enough that I know for a fact it's my desk partner calling me.

"Urgh," I mumble into my elbow, further flattening my face in my arm until my nose mashes even more into my slightly sweaty skin.

The humidity in the room makes everything sticky.

I shift in my seat.

_No,_ I breathe out silently.

To my growing horror, every bit of my clothes cling to my skin. In all the wrong places.

And when I finally crawl out of my elbow, I almost don't want to face my desk partner - _elbow buddies_ \- is how he describes us.

He hisses my name again in the drawn out way that has me wanting to plug my ears.

I hold in my breath as I turn to him.

Even though he only just started school yesterday he already claimed me as his best friend. Only because the others don't want to be his friend.

At least he hasn't tried to hug me.

He better not, or else my parents would get a whiff of an Omega on my skin, and I'd be forced into another _'talk'_ again. And then they'd ask to meet my Omega. As if anyone chooses their mate in 7th grade! The thought of my elbow buddy being my . . . _my_ Omega.

Oh god, no, never!

_Thanks mom,_ I roll my lips together in an effort to not growl at my desk partner.

Mom had asked - told me to - sign up to be part of my school's Welcome Committee, which is why I'm forced to sit right next to the source of my pain.

Getting 'involved' in school activities is what got me into this situation.

The _situation_ is my _elbow buddy._

I cough when air catches in my throat. In a prepared ritual, I curl slightly into myself while a gag rolls throughout my chest.

But unlike all the other times before, it's too late to cover my nose with my hand because the newest gulp of air had already forced his scent into my body.

There is something utterly wrong with his scent.

It's not mean of me to say that and it's not a lie, because while I'm coughing my lungs everyone else is throwing pitying glances at me with their hands over their noses. The substitute teacher scans the room before his eyes fall back to the computer screen on the desk in front of him.

We only have three out of seven classes together but I already had my fill of my _elbow buddy._

I pluck the front of my drenched t-shirt, breathing shallow intakes of air, feeling more lightheaded as the seconds pass.

Whatever happened to 'kids are our future,' - and all that other cheesy stuff adults would say? Kids at least deserve air-conditioned classrooms. We're stuffed in here for hours.

This is so unfair.

A fan to blow his scent away from me would be a blessing.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him staring at me with raised brows.

My head lowers slightly, facing forward so that his scent isn't right in front of me.

Plus, the subtle hanging of my head isn't too obvious that I might fall asleep again. At least, I hope it isn't.

The hairs on my arms start to raise - he's still watching me.

I have to face him, I have to confront him because that's what Alphas do. Alphas solve problems, that's what my parents tell me.

He's an Omega, maybe . . . maybe he just wants attention from an Alpha? I mean, it makes sense - there's only two other Alphas in our grade. As an Alpha I like to know who the Omegas are because it's not that uncommon to choose their mate in high school . . . and because usually their scent is sweeter than all the Betas. But _this_ omega -

What could he want?

'You okay?' he mouths silently. I can't help but notice he looks a little pale, in spite of his question startling me out of my bad mood. _Am I okay?_

Well, yeah, I can't complain outside of my parents fighting at 3am, being forced to sit next to a smelly Omega, and fighting against the urge to hide under my desk and sleep on the nice, flat floor. Other than that, everything's peachy.

I nod, feeling slightly sorry for thinking awful things about him, even if he does smell like . . . he's smells like something - _wrong._

"Gentlemen, eyes on your own test."

I groan aloud at that, slouching further in my chair. The sound must've been louder than I had thought judging from the cold glare from the substitute teacher.

At least he didn't call me out for sleeping earlier. Still, I lower my eyes at being caught by a teacher.

"Unless you want to slide off your chair and onto the floor, I suggest you sit up straight. You won't find the answers on the underside of your desk."

_Urgh._

I sweep my eyes down while sliding myself back up the chair . . .

On my desk is a stark white paper.

Scribbles fill the margins from where I had previously mindlessly let my pencil drag.

I slowly creep my eyes to the first question on the page:

 

_1\. How many solutions does this equation have: 0 = (61a - 5b) + -7a_

 

I quickly scan the following questions and flip the paper to look at the other side, my fingers sticking easily to the paper.

Double-sided test, I wince, gawking as the symbols on the paper starts to blur.

I almost groan aloud, and the paper shakes in my hand the more I look at the list of numbers.

25 questions on the test and I've only answered the first one.

A quick glance at the clocks hands tells me there are only ten minutes before the last bell rings.

I'm so screwed . . .

I wince again, imagining the disappointment on my parents faces and scents when they see my grade.

_F_ for falling asleep in class.

_F_ for failure.

I frown, tapping my pencil along my desk's tabletop. A tremor wrecks my spine, spreading down to my fingertips, and the paper in my hand shakes even more.

I can't fail. This is my best subject, this is my ticket to skipping 8th grade math, this is not happening.

I can do this. Only ten minutes, only 24 questions, and then it's an easy A, and then I can -

"Are you all right?"

Honeyed _concern_ , purely dripping in worry fills my nose. This week's substitute teacher has crouched down beside my seat to speak low.

"Yeah."

He raises his brows.

"Yes, sir."

Though a Beta, his scent is much more calming and bearable after getting a mouthful of my Omega _elbow buddy's_ scent.

I grip my pencil, easily ridding thoughts of the Omega sitting beside me. I'm ready to solve the second problem of the test.

I can do this, I have to do this. I will finish the test -

The hairs on my arms prickle.

He's _still_ watching me.

I remind myself to take short breaths because something is definitely wrong if his scent makes me want to vomit.

Something's wrong with him.

* * *

**2.**

 

"Mom, I'm home!" I holler, kicking off my shoes at the front door, while tossing my backpack on the cushioned bench mom likes to keep in the main hallway.

"In the kitchen!"

After latching the lock of the door, I walk toward the kitchen still holding onto my house key.

I pat my growling stomach along the way. As I turn into the doorway of the kitchen I ask, "Mom, when's dinner ready?"

She's leaned against the stove, a little hunched over as she stirs a large pot, "Hmm?" a light goes off in her eyes when I repeat my question, continuing my walk to her. "I don't want this to burn. I'm taking most of this down to the station, our dinner is what's left over."

Usually parties are at the diner because mom hates cooking, so I ask, "Is it someone's birthday?" I imagine a giant cake and stuffing my face with a huge piece. Hopefully chocolate flavored.

She laughs, putting down her spoon to stop stirring whatever is in the pot.

I lift my chin slightly, inhaling a long breath. Chicken noodle soup. I roll my lips together before asking slowly, "Is someone else . . . sick?"

Bringing homemade soup to dad's work is a first and mom has never cooked so much food at one time.

She pulls me into a hug, and the pressure on top of my head lets me know she's kissing the top of my head.

Then, the weight of something lays on my head - and I realize she's scenting me by rubbing her cheek on my hair.

I let her do whatever she likes and return her hug because this feels much better than falling asleep on a school desk. Even if she and dad kept me up nearly all night, I can't stop myself from falling into her familiar hold.

I rub my face into her shoulder, letting my own scent seep into her clothing.

She pulls back, her hands now on my shoulders. She smiles at me, "You're getting so tall now, I'm a little . . . sad. Now, I know you're too big for me to pick up."

"Mom," I try to slip away from her, scowling, "I'm thirteen."

She lets go of my shoulders to hold my hands, keeping me from trying to get away from her.

She looks straight into my eyes. "You'll always be my baby."

_Urgh._

"Why do you have to say stuff like that, mom?" I throw her a look of disgust.

I'm not a baby.

She laughs, squeezing my hands, "You're adorable."

"No - I'm not!"

Puppies are adorable.

Omegas are adorable.

"I'm the opposite of adorable!"

One of her hands moves to grasp my wrist where the skin is marked with indents and colored a warm, reddish brown.

She traces the marks with her thumb.

"Mom?" I furrow my brows, shuffling closer to her, a far cry from my efforts to get out of her hands before.

She lets go of my hands, turning to face the stove, and picks up the spoon to stir the pot once more. "There's nothing to worry about, baby. I'm sure it's nothing . . ."

I roll my lips together, feeling a little confused. She continues stirring the pot. "Is something going on . . . with . . . you and dad?"

"Agh, damn!"

She shoots a look at me while fishing the spoon out of the soup. "Can't hide anything from you Guides," she mumbles beneath her breath.

Well, she's not wrong about that, but . . . "I heard you and dad last night, me being a Guide has nothing to do with sensing something's wrong with you guys."

At that, she huffs a laugh. "I'm sorry, baby. But that saying has some truth! I really can't hide anything from you," she says with a fond smile.

Clearing her throat, she speaks firmer now, saying, "Your daddy and I are going through a rough patch, I won't lie, and every bonded pair has their hardships . . . Anyway, while I'm gone, d'you have plans with friends tonight?"

Do I ever?

I think back to the few times I had friends come over - and it's only a few occasions. Who wants to be friends with a cop's kid?

"Uhhh . . . No, no plans. Just doing the usual tonight."

The scent of crystal clear relief comes from her to me. She turns a dial of the stovetop and just like that, the redness of the burners fades to black.

"I can visit dad's work with you," I offer more quietly, carefully watching her.

"Baby," she starts to coo.

I groan aloud - what did I do now?

I'm almost out the kitchen doorway before she grabs me into a hug. Her scent clouding over my senses and my skin tingles where she touches.

"You're such a sweet Alpha Guide," she smiles fully with dimples now. I blush deeply, ducking my head. "You're going to make one lucky Omega really happy."

"Mom, please - stop."

"Alright, I'm stopping," she throws her arms up in the air in surrender, and I clutch onto the doorway, still unsure if I really should stay home while she's going to visit dad's work.

I hadn't seen him since yesterday evening.

"Oh, how did your math test go?" she has her back turned to me as she takes a giant plastic container from a shelf.

"I think I did good, there was only 25 questions."

She nods, standing straight now as she places the container onto an empty countertop. "I'm so proud of you, baby. Math wasn't my strong suit, Lord knows where you got that mind from. It's not from your daddy, either . . . "

"Maybe it skips a generation." I push myself off of the doorway and grab onto the large pot when it's in reach. I tip it over while she holds the plastic container.

Together, we work to get all of the chunks of chicken and shredded carrots out of the pot.

"Hey, mom?" I prompt, watching her spoon out the remains of the soup into the plastic container.

"Yeah, baby?"

"There's a new kid in school."

She lifts a brow in interest, eyes glowing brighter, "An Omega?"

I leave the empty pot on the counter, rolling my eyes. Knowing her, she's already planning my wedding.

I silently watch her snap a secure lid onto to the plastic container, but the scent of savory chicken broth and wheat noodles still coats the air in the room.

"Yeah," I tell her shortly. "The weird thing is that his scent is - off."

I shake my head, still confused at how everyone in the school stayed away from him. Myself included.

Her eyes narrow, and her hands go to her hips, "Carl Grimes, are you bullying someone because of their scent? An _Omega?"_

My jaw drops, and I hurry to speak, "No! Everyone can smell him, it's not just me thinking it. It's not like . . . sweat or dirty clothes. It's like there's something . . . wro - "

Her eyes start to tighten and the marks on one of my wrists start to burn.

" - wrong with him."

"And what did Mrs. White have to say about him?" her voice starts to echo in the kitchen as she speaker louder and louder with each new word, "Did she let y'all keep on bullying him? I'll be having a talking to with her tomorrow!"

We've had a substitute teacher for the past three weeks. Just as I'm about to speak, the marks on my wrist burn hotter, _"Ouch!"_

Immediately mom crowds around me, "Ooh - I'm sorry, baby," she massages my throbbing wrist. "It's just . . . Carl, you know how I feel about bullying."

"Yeah, don't do it, or else," I shake my wrist at her as emphasis.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she continues to rub my wrist raw, her voice saddened. "You know, I'd never wish for you to be different, but I'd change this one thing if I could. When you were born, we never dreamed of having a Guide. We only expected an Alpha, it's almost a family legacy at this point."

"Seriously, it's not a big deal. I've had thirteen years to get used to you or dad getting mad at me."

She peers down at me, "How's your wrist now?"

I twist my wrist so the soft underside is in my view. The redness is still there, as always. The indented teeth marks are still there from when she first left her scent when I was a newborn.

The burning heat is gone, so that's good.

"Doesn't hurt," I inform her lowly.

She smiles, soft and familiar and that makes up for the pain.

* * *

  **3.  
**

 

Slow down. Slow down, slow down, damn it!

I turned a sharp corner, ducking under the reaching hands.

BANG!

BANG!

"Gotcha!" I shout in victory, watching the body falls flat on its back before fading into nothing.

I beam at the bold red words flashing on and off the screen: Level 50 Complete!

"Hey, kiddo," a hand slides onto my shoulder.

I yelp, letting go of the game controller. It thumps onto the sofa. "Dad! You scared me!"

I'm a bit annoyed at myself for not paying attention so badly that I didn't scent or hear him coming.

He runs a hand through his hair before collapsing onto the couch cushion beside me.

The warmth of his side pressed against mine is a welcome sensation.

His arm comes over the back of the couch while his hand pulls me further into him.

His chest rumbles with laughter, "Well, I'd say I'm sorry, but your reaction was priceless."

He pokes between my ribs in a quick, jabbing move, and I can't stop the tickling feeling. I burst burst into laughter, and his deeper tone joins mine.

He sighs, "It's good to be home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own TWD, no money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended by me writing this fan-fiction story. I do, however, own the opinion that Harry Styles is a fantastic singer.
> 
> I'll admit right now... I love feedback. Don't be shy! I gladly accept constructive criticism, but flaming or hateful comments - will be met a reply in-kind. Don't like the content or subject, don't read it. Simple really.
>
>> Comments and kudos are deeply appreciated!


	2. Playing In This Disaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who had commented the previous chapter!
> 
> Faster updates means shorter chapters. If only there were more hours in a day. I'll do my best to write more.
> 
> One day time-skip. Last chapter ended during the nighttime, we skip a morning/night.
> 
> Not beta-read, please excuse typos and grammatical mistakes.

 

 

* * *

_"I provide for you." {Negan, season 7 episode 1}_

* * *

 

**1.**

 

"Morning, son," dad greets, ruffling his hand through my hair. "Lori . . ."

"G'morning!" I absently cheer, fully focused on cutting my knife through the fluffy pancakes placed in front of me. I pierce my fork through a smaller chunk, lifting it up to my lips. The warm, sugary syrup is gooey and drips down my fork. My head pecks forward before any of it can drip onto my clothes.

"Rick, have some food, we've got plenty of time today," mom says through her own mouthful of food, her own eyes glued to her plate. "It's good that you're off-duty today, I've got a laundry list of errands for us."

I glance at mom, wondering why she thinks dad isn't working because he's wearing his uniform.

Dad pulls his head out of the open fridge.

Mom's fork hovers midair, and I guess she didn't look at him before now because she glances at him from head-to-toe. She starts shaking her head.

Mom shaking her head is always a bad sign.

The sharp noise of her metal fork clanking against her plate makes me pause my eating too.

"Why is your uniform not hanging in the closet, Rick?"

Dad sighs, _loudly._

"Something to say, Rick," mom returns the sigh, "Speak."

"I'm sorry," dad rubs at his chin, "I was called in."

"So," she begins in a light-as-air voice, "Call in sick, tell them you can't make come in." She crosses her arms over her chest.

"I can't, they need me."

"Well, we need you, too. I can't believe you - you'd do this, again." Mom's sharp voice echoes in the kitchen, "You promised me. You said you'd ask for a day off."

There's a dull wooden sound as dad drags a chair away from the table. He sits slowly, eyeballing me before focusing on mom. "I don't make the rules. If I could, I would stay here."

He reaches out a hand.

I gasp as mom slaps him away.

She snarls, "That's not enough!"

I cringe back into my seat. The scent of anger rolling off of her skin edges into every corner of the kitchen. I don't like the intensity of anger, hot-white and lashing out at dad.

"Mom, please . . . " the Guide part within me is screaming to stop the fighting and calm her emotions.

"Lori - "

She stands without warning. A growl in her voice as she speaks, "You _never_ follow through with your promises. Sometimes I wonder . . . "

"Let's talk about this later," dad shoots a worried look at me.

"Speak, now. Let's talk now rather than never."

He goes to stand in front of mom, hands outstretched to her.

"No," she shakes her head, taking a step back. "How can there be a 'later' when you're almost never home. Sometimes I wonder if you even care about us at all."

"That's not true. I love you and Carl more than _anything_ in the world."

A flood of warmth wraps over my skin, and I know what he says is true. Dad loves me and mom.

"Work means more to you," she scoffs, "You don't love me and you don't love Carl, not as much as you love your job. You think Carl isn't hurting, too? His hero-worship of you won't last forever, Rick."

I can't take anymore of mom's harsh words and angry scent. I jump out of my chair. Pancakes long forgotten and appetite gone, I dart through the space between mom and dad, heading straight out the door before they can have a chance to stop me.

I round the corner at the base of the staircase, one hand over my trembling lips, the other anchoring me upright against the wall. My cheeks feel hot. My hand pressed to my lips feels wet and sticky.

I bring my hand away from my face, splaying my hand flat over where my heart is sinking deeper into my chest.

. . . I hate crying. The empty, hollowness in my heart always leaves me aching.

I blink hard, trying to stop the tears from falling.

* * *

**2.**

 

I rub away the itch in my eyes, knowing it will only make my eyes swell up more because of my crying earlier this morning. I lower my head, staring at the words I had written:

**Get well soon! - Carl**

"How about you draw a picture as well?" the latest substitute teacher looks down at my short and simple message I had just finished writing on the card. I briefly wonder what happened to the last teacher.

Recapping the marker in my hand, I shrug, "I can't draw."

"Aw," she coos.

I fight against the frown wanting to form on my face by flattening my lips together. Nobody should be cooing over me like I'm a baby or an Omega needing praise.

_I'm not cute._

"The little Omega might appreciate a more . . . personal touch from an Alpha, don't you think?" she winks.

I frown, eyes bulging. The marker in my hand falls out of my frozen hand, landing in a clatter on my desk. "You think that I . . . that I want him?"

The teacher, with a name I can't remember, claps her hands together, a smile growing on her rosy cheeks. "Wouldn't that be sweet!"

My mood from this morning seems to be carrying with me throughout the entire school day, the scowl on my face feels heavy, but I continue to speak anyway, "He's not mine."

I scowl at the thought and the teacher's behavior. I roll my shoulders at the shudder shaking my spine. As if ' _elbow buddy'_ could be mine, not with that scent. Even my nose twitches.

"Oh," her mouth rounds and her face goes blank for a second. "All right... all done with your card?"

I hand it over - a colored paper folded in half - she adds it to the pile of other cards on her desk at the front of the room.

She claps her hands together, gathering everyone's attention in the classroom, "Hospitals can be so stuffy, I'm sure our little Omega friend will feel so much better after reading your cards."

"Especially Carl's," someone whispers behind me.

 _"~Oohhh!"_ playful gasping from nearly all my classmates fills the room.

I whip my head around, looking for the speaker. My cheeks grow hot as everyone around me laughs at the not-so-quiet whisper.

Releasing a bubbling growl from my chest, I let the anger from this morning, the confusion of mom's outburst and dad's hurt from her words, wash over me. My growling gets louder and louder as I purposely allow my emotions to fester. I can bottle it up inside easily and let it go, as all Guides can do. As an Alpha, I won't let them laugh at me so easily.

"Young man, stop your growling! A little teasing never killed anyone," the teacher stood before me, hands on her hips, her face stern.

My growls slowly stop rumbling within me and the rampant emotions within me ease like a thunderous storm losing its powerful winds. A voice inside me croons in the back of my mind:

_Calm . . . calm down . . . calm . . ._

I breathe a little easier when I open my eyes again - when had I closed them?

Wary looks from around the room meet mine in fleeting glances, like they're afraid of me.

I tilt my head, sniffing the air.

They _are_ afraid.

That's . . . good, right? That's what I wanted.

The Alpha inside me purrs _yes._ The Guide inside me is still whispering at me to stay calm.

I grumble under my breath. This emotional warring inside me is annoying, even more annoying since mom says it's because of 'puberty.'

"Whatever . . ." I scoff.

* * *

**3.**

 

I pass through the main doors of my school, caught up in the crowd of other students and a parents weaving their way through the entrance.

"Carl!" mom calls at me from afar, one hand waving high in the air above her head.

I pull my textbook close to my chest, wrapping my arms into a sort of hug. So what if I'm still a little angry at her for this morning?

She had apologized on the drive to school, but _still._

She said so many mean things about dad.

But her scent when she apologized was honest and she did feel sorry for saying that dad didn't love or care about us.

I roll my lips together, going back-and-forth from angry to sad to forgiving took a lot out of me, and leaves me wishing I could drive myself to school. Only a few more years and I can learn to drive, then I won't be cornered by mom or dad wanting to talk to me. Sometimes being an only child is hard, especially being the only child of two hardheaded Alphas.

I let out a harsh breath and walk through the crowd to meet mom.

The closer I get to her, the clearer the glassy-eyed, stunned look on her face becomes. Her scent smells funny.

"What . . . what happened? What's wrong?" I quickly ask her, hugging my textbook tighter. I don't want to touch her, don't want to spread her scent on my skin after what she had said this morning.

"It's . . . your dad," she says in a broken voice, "Shane c-called, said he was . . . " her voice trails off. She gulps hard, her throat bobbing as if she swallowed a stone, "He was s-shot."

The world tilts under my feet, and I nearly snap my textbook in half with my frightened grip. "No - that's not, he can't be - "

I hiccup, losing the battle against a sob. A wrecked animalistic noise rips out of me.

Mom's arms curl around me in the next moment. She pulls my head to rest against her, her heartbeat ringing in my ear as I cry. I don't have it in me to lean away. "We need to go - I need to see him."

"Okay, baby," she whispers into my hair, her words are warbled and shaking, "Shane's waiting for us to meet him at . . . at the hospital. I came to get you as fast as I could."

 

 

._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._.

_"Oh shit . . ." {Abraham, season 4 episode 11}_

_._.__ __._.__ _ _._.__ _._.__ _._.__ _._.__ _._.__ _._.__ _._.__ _._.__ _._.__ _._.__ _._._

* * *

**A/N:  
**

**One more chapter of just Alpha Carl (and then we will most likely change POVs to the other half of our main pairing, Omega Ana). It's undecided if I want to continue with Carl's pov or switch to our OFC's pov yet...  
**

Disclaimer: I don't own TWD, no money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended by me writing this fan-fiction story. I do, however, own the opinion that Harry Styles is a fantastic singer, and Levi is my Heichō.

**I'll admit right now... I love feedback. Don't be shy! I gladly accept constructive criticism, but flaming or hateful comments - will be met a reply in-kind. Don't like the content or subject, don't read it. Simple really. Kudos and comments are love!**


	3. Chapter 3

> This story is non-trad A/B/O dynamics, if that wasn't obvious before, lol. Not everyone is a sentinel or guide, not everyone is an alpha or omega. More often than not, most people are ordinary.

IDK much about hospitals, btw, sorry in advance...

_**._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._.** _

_"_ _Why are you here, and what do you want." {Doctor Edwin Jenner, season 1 episode 6}_

**_._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._ **

* * *

**1.**

**"Earlier this week, the CDC released a statement that - "**

"ACHOO! Uh, can I. . . ?"

I tilt the tissue box in my lap toward the sneezing man.

Then, without any notice, my head falls against mom's shoulder. Her scent, warm and familiar, fills my nose.

We both try to ignore the noises coming from the other people cooped up in here.

**" - sudden dizziness, confusion, pain or pressure in the chest or . . . "**

That sounds like how I felt when mom told me about dad.

_'Hurt on the job_. _'_ That's what he told me a long time ago. He could get hurt protecting people. _'This job is dangerous, but someone has to . . .'_

I gulp, my sniffling lost underneath the news on the television and the rough scraping of ballpoint pens on paper, and the crying.

Who's _not_ crying in this room? Maybe only the people sitting behind the desks and the doctors in white coats rushing between this room and the countless other rooms.

Mom' shoulder rattles my brain, with my head still resting against her.

Our joined hands shake between us.

I hear another wet blow of snot hit the tissue in her other hand. She hasn't come up for air since we sat down.

Lifting my head up, I hand her another tissue from the box in my lap. Eyes holding her red face, I watch her crumble the new tissue into a ball, her face wrinkling.

"Mom . . . dad's gonna be fine."

It didn't feel like an empty promise. Somehow, without any proof or inkling of what the future holds, dad has to be fine.

"I know," her fingernails dig lightly into my palm.

I sniffle, rubbing my nose against her shirt, hoping my scent will soothe her, even just a little bit.

My throat tightens and the air tastes stale, laying thick on my tongue.

How can the hospital make people feel better, if something as vital as _air_ is unnatural?

The scents coating every inch of the walls must've been sprayed with chemicals to remove any and all scents in the room.

The sight of green plastic potted plants around the room only makes me frown even harder.

A door opens again, this time it carries a scent I've known for as long as I could breathe -

Shane stands before us. "They say he's out of surgery."

He's still wearing his uniform, and he reminds me so much of dad that my heart skips a beat.

"He's finally resting. Your old man is strong . . . Carl, Lori, you hear me? He's gonna live."

Mmm only cries louder at his words, and I'm pulled closer to her, almost ending up in her lap.

"He's fine, Rick's gonna live? No broken bones, or -"

"A little bruised and rattled, but otherwise, he's alive."

"I want - " my voice breaks, and I'm forced to sniffle. Mom lifts a new tissue from the box and passes it to me. I take it, feeling lighter in my chest, even my swollen eyes feel less achy. "I wanna see him."

Shane crouches down at my feet, his hands anchor to my chair's arms on either side of my body. I lean into him, falling with my face onto his shoulder. With my chin hooking over his shoulder, I fall deeper into his arms. He's warm and his skin still holds dad's scent.

"You will."

I perk up and peel my face from him, "Can I? Right now?"

He claps a hand onto my shoulder, his dark eyes are unsteady. Watery and red-rimmed.

He chuckles slightly at my challenging behavior.

I let him go as he rises to stand. He ruffles a hand through my hair, further sharing dad's scent with me.

Shane looks to mom, who has her eyes glued to him. "I'm sure your dad would like something nice to look at when he wakes up."

He clears his throat, "We can pick up flowers and get a card for him. D'you think he'd like that, Carl? Lori?"

With a hand over her chest, mom nods and sniffles into her crumpled tissue, "I - I think he really would. C'mon, Carl, we'll be back to visit later when he's awake."

"Why can't we see him now?"

Both of them are out of their seats but I make no move to leave.

Flowers are for sick people and funerals. "Dad's not sick - he's not - he's not dying, so I want to see him."

He was shot, a bullet stuck in his shoulder - that's what Shane told us. But now he's alone in his room, he shouldn't be alone when he's hurt.

"But you said he's fine - why can't we see him now?"

Mom latches onto Shane's arm in a split second, sobbing loudly into the crook of his neck. He pulls her closer with an arm around her back, his freehand is outstretched for me to take.

"Rick," mom sobs into Shane.

Her scent is like a spinning top, changing too fast for me to get a read on her. The _Guide_ inside of me hates this. Urges me to talk to her, to scramble and pick up the pieces she's laying down - this primal part of me reads the situation before my slow modern mind can:

She's crying because her mate was seriously hurt and she can't scent him,

She's hugging Shane over me because his clothes and skin carry dad's scent,

She's tucking her head into his neck, the exact spot where her lips would meet his mating scent gland, because . . . because . . . ?

The _Guide_ is confused and a little hurt, coming into my awareness through little nudging sensations that tingles my brain.

Shane's tugging me out of my chair by my hand, and the _Guide_ inside of me continues to think.

**"Just in, news at the top of the hour, a serious warning from the CDC: the public is advised to - "**

* * *

**2.**

"Wait," mom halts us in the main lobby of the hospital. She turns to me, "We should visit your friend." She wipes a wad of tissue under her nose.

" - Who?"

" - Who?"

Shane and I ask at the same time.

I look at her, dumbfounded. Her achingly sad scent has settled down with the update on dad's condition.

A tired smile lines her lips, "That Omega you told me about."

"I don't think that's a good idea, mom." I knew I should have told her that I had caught wind of his scent in one of the hospital's hallways.

She shuffles under Shane's arm, sniffling and clutching her tissue to her chest. "At the end of the day, he's still your classmate, honey. You never know, maybe you'll help him get better sooner, rather than later. You're a familiar face, a familiar scent..."

"Ugh, he's not my omega," I grumble, thoroughly exhausted with how this day is turning out. "No matter what you or anybody else says."

Her sad eyes and souring scent has me marching to the front desk. After giving his name and making it clear we are _just_ friends, the desk clerk gives us directions to his room, which is where I find my feet stuck in the doorway.

That scent of his stops me from walking further.

I made a card for him, saying 'get well soon,' but this . . . _he_ looks bad.

"Carl?"

That mop of hair is closely shaved to his scalp. A strange coloring of his skin adds to the beet red from his sweating. In fact, he's dripping in sweat - the light hospital gown sticks to his chest.

The dopey smile of his is still there, greeting me and all I want to do is turn around.

"Go ahead, we'll wait out here," mom's voice is quieter than ever. Still tucked under Shane's shoulder, they usher me into the room.

"I got your card," he wheezes, that dumb smile is still there.

I make a face, wishing I wore a mask.

"Did you like it?" the question slips from my lips. I curse the Alpha in me for asking that.

His cracked lips shine under the dim lights, "Yeah!"

"So, uh . . ."

"You can come closer, I don't bite," he laughs, and it's a breathy sound.

I shuffle closer to his bed. My hands having nowhere to go slide into my front pant pockets.

I hold my breath, wondering how long I can go before I start to gasp for air.

"What's . . . ?"

"What's wrong with me?"

I nod. I always thought there was something wrong with him.

"I'm sick."

"I - I can see that."

"Ouch," he says lightly, "Just what I wanted to hear."

"Sorry," I mutter, shifting on my feet.

"It's okay," he shudders.

He looks to the ceiling, still resting on his back on the fluffy white pillows. His eyes are dark and round, "They told me it's something called Lymphoma. Whatever that means. I, I kinda stopped listening after mom started crying."

"Does that mean you're . . . dying?" My thoughts fly back to dad.

"You ask a lot of questions, Carl," he huffs a laugh again.

"I'm sorry." I apologize, even though his scent doesn't seem angry. I just don't know what to say, I didn't even want to be here.

My hands curl in my pockets, fighting against the urge to reach out and comfort him. It's that damn Alpha part of me that wants to care for any Omega.

"Never said it was a bad thing," he counters. "Means you're a good person, you want to know more."

"Thanks," I say it, and I mean it.

"I'm tired," he cranes his neck on his pillow, closing his eyes. "Could you close the door when you go?"

"Sure, I can do that."

The short walk from his bed to his door stretches like miles upon miles.

Mom and Shane's curious faces watch me close the door. I shake my head at them, "I - I . . ."

Mom scrunches up her forehead, "How do you feel, baby?"

I'm feeling out-of-sorts.

"He's sick," I blink a few times, "I think he's dying, mom."

"No, oh no," she gasps, clutching at Shane's chest.

He inhales a sharp breath and wipes a hand over his gaping mouth. "Feels like we're getting bad news over and over again today. I'm sorry, kid."

"I want to get him a card too."

" - Yeah, of course."

" - C'mon, give me a hug."

Our trio bundles together into a mix of tightly wound arms and hating this day even more than ever.

* * *

**3.**

I sat in the back of the car with my arms folded over my chest. The tall green trees blurred as we drove along the highway.

**"It's crazy times! Contact your family and mark safe places on your maps. Something's happening, I'm telling you, this is more serious than they're letting on."**

"Change the station, Shane, you know better than to listen to fanatics."

I imagine mom rolled her eyes at Shane's smirk.

**"I agree this is getting rather serious. The CDC making statements nearly every hour and now the U.S. president is expected to hold a conference. But who is the ' _they_ ' you are referring to?"**

**"The damn crooks - "  
**

Mom turns the dial of the car radio, stopping at random.

"Hey, I'm driving, woman! That means I control the radio."

**"Speaking with health officials at Grady Memorial Hospital, they made a statement that emergency patients will continue to be accepted. They failed to make it clear if non-emergencies will be accepted. EMTs and medical personnel - "**

"What is happening out there?" Shane drums his fingers along the steering wheel. "Just this morning they were saying it's the flu. I'll have to call - "

" - Shane, watch out!"

"Ah!" I gasp, my arms whipping out from my body. My head is thrown forward and just as fast, I'm thrown into my seat.

"Arrrghhh!" he grunts, jerking the steering wheel sharply, "Holy shit! What kinda dumb piece of shit thinks it's okay to walk on a highway?!"

"Language!" Mom shouts, her hands above her head, touching the top of the car to steady herself. "Carl, baby - sweetheart - are you okay?"

She turns her head back at me, and I can't speak with the fear of what just happened keeping my throat closed.

"I'm turning us around, we gotta make sure that girl's okay."

"Shane, take us home. This day is just turning worse and worse. I don't know how much more I can take."

"Lori, I can't just ignore what happened."

"I can't -" mom's voice wobbles and eventually breaks. "Shane, I want us to go home."

Shane sighs. "Okay, I - I'll just call it in to station. We better see Rick tomorrow, is that alright with you, Carl?"

I rub the back of my head. It's throbbing.

The terrified scent coming from mom makes my decision easy, "Yeah."

* * *

**4.**

I curl my legs up, folding my arms around my knees, and kneading my toes into the wooden stair step beneath me.

Mom paces back and forth in from of the couch.

The tv is on and it's on the news channel. Seems like every tv in this town is set to watch the news.

**" - loss of power in parts of Georgia, as well as parts of Tennessee and South Carolina. Our region is advised to seek shelter at designated 'zones.' These include surrounding counties of Atlanta. Our sources tell us - "**

"We're not leaving."

"This is about keeping you and Carl safe, we're sitting ducks if we stay. That white-picket fence outside your house isn't going to do much of anything."

"What are you talking about? Power outages are nothing! I doubt looters are gonna come through here."

"You heard the same thing I did, right? We have to go to the city. There's a virus spreading around, we can't stick around to catch it."

"No, Shane," she shakes her head.

"What Rick wants more than anything in the world is for you and Carl to be safe, he told me that."

"Even if that means leaving him behind?"

"Look," he runs a hand through his hair, "I'll make sure Rick knows where we're going, that way he can find us in Atlanta. Give me half-an-hour, and if I'm not back you start driving to the city."

"I don't like this, I don't like this _at all."_

"I know," he holds her upper arms, pulling her into his hold.

I clasp the stair's railing in my hands, wanting to comfort mom, but it looks and smells like it's Shane she wants right now. Their deep connection and friendship is something to praise.

"If you're not back, we'll wait for you."

"I promise I'll come back. You better promise me you'll go, if you have to."

"Can I go with you, Shane?" I ask from my place on the stairs.

"No, Carl," mom answers before Shane can. "You're staying in the house with me."

**_~~~~._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._ **

_"Think about something else, puppies and kittens." {Rick, season 1 episode 2}_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carl - Alpha Guide
> 
> Rick - Alpha
> 
> Lori - Alpha
> 
> Shane - Beta
> 
> I swear, Carl's classmate has importance to later on in the story! He's not just a random characater.
> 
> I'll admit right now... I love feedback. Don't be shy! I gladly accept constructive criticism, but flaming or hateful comments - will be met a reply in-kind. Don't like the content or subject, don't read it. Simple really.


	4. Chapter 4

Good news! I'm almost done with school! This is a _'hello, i'm not dead, i'm not abandoning this story'_ alert.

This week I am writing out the entire plot of 'Playing For Keeps,' so that updates should be much faster in the next few months. Don't expect an update until the first week of July. I still have final exams to prepare for.

Here are things to look forward to when I finally update. Note: these are a mix of actual story dialogue and my story notes.

**1.**

"I can feel – it..."

_"_ _It?"_

"It's hot, right here," she holds a hand against her neck.

**2.**

"I'm pregnant."

"..."

"I ain't got a stuffy nose, I can smell that lil' shit from a mile away."

**3.**

"It hurt to say it."

That part of him, primitive and loud inside of his head, almost drowns his own voice out.

"Next time, you better trust that feeling. When you want to hurt someone you care about, don't say it or you'll regret it."

"I know."

"That part of you needs to be listened to," Rick advises his troubled son, _"Guides_ are different. You're different from me and mom, and that's okay."

"That's the problem, I don't want to be different."

"Don't fight who you are, Carl, or else you'll regret that, too."

**4.**

He dreams of red hair, straight and flowing, turning into streams of blood.

**5.**

"We're almost there, we can make it back, just... wait, let me," I grab her arm, slinging it over my shoulder, "there. Does that help?"

**6.**

I stood in front of the door, press the side of my face into it, but only catch frenzied whispers through the thin wood. Damn, if I were a Sentinel I'd be able to hear what they're saying.

Inhaling deeply, I can almost taste the _hurt._ My fingers form a fist and I tap my knuckles to the wood, "Mom?"

The whispers ( _whimpers?)_ stop.

"Mom, are you in there?"

**7.**

Blue and orange lit up like comets and stars in a frenzied mess of sparks and streaking bright lines, only to eventually fizzle into nothing.

"What happened to her?"

It's Andrea who breaks the somber silence.

"She's gone - I think. Give it a few more seconds."

"You _think?"_

_'Why are we watching someone die?'_ Carl can only stand still, eyes tracing the lines of the women's skull, seeing a void of black where there was once a maze of lights.

And the longer he sees the stranger on the screen, he starts to imagine its Sophia. He can remember her loose limbs flop onto the ground, and her blood drying to a near shade of black. Her eyes blank, no light - no nothing. He already knew in that second she was dead.

"Oh my -"

"What the hell is happening?"

There's movement on the screen, catching Carl's attention.

"She's _alive?"_

"One could think that way, yes."

**8.**

"Hold my hand, Carl."

I roll my lips into a flat line, "That's funny, just a second ago you chewed me out for trying to do just that."

She waggles her fingers at me. Her small smile already gone, "You know why I had to."

**9.**

"That's a rash, son."

He continues to itch that spot on his lower back.

"What were you doing last night?"

"Uh, we - _I._ I must have been bit by a bug."

Someone in the room snorts, "A love-bug."

"First of all, congrats on getting laid," Andrea rolls her eyes, "Second of all, can we focus on our actual problem now?"

* * *

**After reading that and the previous chapters, could you tell me if you prefer 1st person or 3rd person? I'm having a really bad, really really annoying problem with trying to decide if I should write this story in 1st person. I guess I'm asking for a second opinion, because I've been driving myself mad about this topic. This is legit the first story I've been writing in 1st person, I usually write 3rd person. I have no problem going back and writing the posted chapters as 3rd person. I have super mixed feelings about this. I know it's really lame to be debating this when I've already posted a couple of chapters, but this has been coming up in my brain whenever I try to write chapters. The plot is solid, but the narration type is bugging me.  
**

**Please let me know by writing something in the comments or a PM.**

**_Type "1" for 1st person. (I, me,)**

**_Type "2" for 3rd person. (He, her)**

**or something along those lines. I really am doubting which way I want this story to go, in terms of character perspective. Much appreciated! Thanks for reading! I hope to see you in July!**


End file.
